


the lukewarm hello

by kindafancybus



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Abuse of italics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Sequences, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Maybe - Freeform, Mental Illnesses, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period-Typical Homophobia, Somewhat non-linear narrative, Unbeta-ed, also tatiana joined the cia like six months ago, it sort of just bounces back from present day to memories it should be pretty easy to follow, mentions of torture, tatiana and curt are partners and she honestly deserves better, that doesn't come up in the first chapter tho, the entire fic takes place like two years and six months after owen's initial death, who knows i still haven't written it yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-11 11:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17446376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindafancybus/pseuds/kindafancybus
Summary: Absolute Truths:1. Curt Mega was not in love with Owen Carvour.2. Owen Carvour was dead.3. Tatiana deserved a better partner.Or, Curt Mega should really take up drinking again.





	1. a meeting

**Author's Note:**

> hey guess who's a dumb bastard and hasn't written anything in two years, only to pull this ooc mess out of his ass
> 
> it's me, ya boy.
> 
> so yeah, haven't written anything recently and this probably sucks, but you know what? fucking loved writing it, so here it is.

Owen looks younger. He’s wearing the same suit Curt had met him in, almost impossibly black and firmly pressed, well taken care of. And, in hindsight, Owen looks exactly the same as when they first met, down to the strands of hair falling in his face. Curt didn’t really think anything of it, though, because he really didn’t think of anything. Really couldn’t think of anything.

Because they weren’t anywhere, not really. They aren’t _not_ in a place, either, but they’re certainly not anywhere. The place they’re in is perfectly nondescript, but at the same time Curt could describe it in perfect detail. It makes his head hurt to think about, really.

Because Owen is there and he’s cupping Curt’s face with his hands and Curt can hardly feel it, like Owen’s hands were hovering above his face instead of actually touching it.

Because Owen pulls him closer, lips almost touching and somehow Curt can feel it more clearly than the hands on his face.

Because there is something terribly, terribly wrong. And Curt can’t think-- _won’t_ think of it. There is something wrong and all he wants to do is look at Owen.

“This is a dream,” Owen sounds apologetic, which is weird because Owen never apologizes. “This is a very, very good dream, but it is only a dream, love.” He looks sad when he says it and Curt can’t bring himself to feel the same, because it’s a dream, but it doesn’t mean Owen’s not there and Curt can’t bring himself to feel sad, not when Owen’s around.

“I think,” Curt says, bringing their foreheads together, as he rests a hand on Owen’s cheek, the other flitting down to his waist. “That was supposed to be my line.” The words feel thick in his mouth, like he wasn’t meant to speak them yet.

Owen laughs and it is the most beautiful thing Curt has ever heard and he misses it. But Curt isn’t sure how he can miss it because it never left, not really, and Curt laughs too, even though it feels wrong now. It is as if the air has shifted, because Owen’s smile no longer looks soft and warm, but instead it looks sharp, far too sharp, and his hands feel heavy across Curt’s face, like they’re digging into his skin.

 

“Guess I’m just one step ahead of you.”

  


There is a moment, a single terrible, wonderful moment, in between sleeping and being awake, where Curt Mega thought Owen Carvour was still alive.

  


“Are you seriously sleeping right now?”

Tatiana sounded annoyed and Curt was the exact amount of not equipped to deal with it. His head was pounding like he had the worst fucking hangover in the world, even though he had sworn off drinking once he started spying again and god, it was just his fucking luck that Tatiana caught him sleeping. Susan would not have given a shit. Cynthia would have straight up killed him, which honestly was preferable to Tatiana finding him. Because not only would she mock him, she would be disappointed in him and everyone knows that was the fucking worst.

“You’re seriously sleeping right now,” Curt said, lamely, because his mind was eight thousand steps behind. He rubbed his eyes, trying to remove any remnants from the dream from his mind. He didn’t remember the majority of it, just that there was something terribly _wrong_ and that there was nothing Curt could do about it. No matter what he did, it would be the same amount of wrong and that his life would never be the same. It was a weird fucking dream, zero out of ten, would not recommend.

Curt probably shouldn’t have been sleeping in Cynthia’s office in the first place, but the chairs were comfortable and she was late for the meeting _again_ , and she made the meeting at midnight, so it really couldn’t have been helped.

When Curt eventually looked at Tatiana, she looked disgusted at his attempt at a comeback, which, honestly, fair. Curt hadn’t exactly thought it through. Upon closer examination, she looked...comically neutral. Like she was a caricature of what a calm person should be like.

“So, do you know anything about this mission?” Curt asked, trying to be casual as he watched Tatiana for any change. There was none, but she did shrug, which meant she did know something.

The motherfucker.

Despite the fact that Curt used to be considered one of the greatest spies in the entire world (right next to _him_ , which was a barrel of shit he was _not_ getting into), everyone told everything to Tatiana first, even though she was, for starters, a former KGB agent. And she had only been working there for, like, six months. Though, Curt had only come out of his two year long retirement six months ago, it still seemed entirely unfair that his partner got all the information first.

It had been the same with his old partner, but that at least made sense. Everyone had been up his ass, even Cynthia adored him and Cynthia pretty much hated everyone. People from the CIA still talked about him, but now they talked about him like he was some great myth like “did you hear about the time he killed an entire squad using nothing but a toothbrush?” or “I heard that he once took down an entire foreign government in an afternoon.” Curt only knew that people said shit like that about his former partner because Tatiana told him. No one dared to talk about it to his face.

Someone had tried, once, and Curt may have punched them in the jaw.

Tatiana was looking at Curt, now, and there was something akin to pity in her eyes, which Curt would have preferred death over. Everyone in the agency pitied Curt except for Cynthia and Tatiana and he wouldn’t be able to stand it if she also jumped on the whole pity parade.

She opened her mouth to speak, but that had also been the precise moment Cynthia walked into the room.

  
  


Briefings weren’t really Curt Mega’s thing.

 

Sure, Curt had been working as an agent for about two months, but he could already tell; not his thing. Especially not with foreign countries because that was its own special section of hell that Curt couldn’t even describe. But apparently the matter was “of international importance” and  
“yes, you absolutely have to attend,” and “stop bitching about it Mega or I’ll kill you myself.”  It didn’t help that Curt hadn’t actually listened to what the briefing was on, just that it was of international importance. He supposed he might have an effect of him, hence the international part, but he could not bring himself to listen to it.

Which was why Curt was sitting at a table, alone, in a suit that was somewhat a bit _too_ nice for this kind of event. He wasn’t supposed to be sitting alone, he was supposed to be sitting with his agency, but fuck knows where they all went. So, Curt was sitting alone at a table, trying not to pout and look busy at the same time. The briefing hadn’t even started yet, because the jackass who was supposed to helm the meeting hadn’t even bothered to show up on time and god, Curt Mega was going to strangle the man once he found him.

Well, maybe he shouldn’t have assumed it was a man, but the point still stood.

 

“Pardon me, is this seat taken?”

The voice was polite but sharp and Curt definitely did not jump when he heard it.

The voice belonged to a man, who, for one, was unfairly attractive. His hair was a dark brown (Curt didn’t even think brown _could_ be that nice)  that was slicked back, though a strand or two still hung over his forehead, perhaps unintentionally. His jaw was a bit crooked, which made his smile crooked, which was charming rather than odd and Curt hated that he found it charming. He hated how quickly he had become endeared by this stranger.

The second thing Curt noticed was his eyes. They were a nice brown (again, brown wasn’t as nice before this moment, Curt was pretty sure), but the smile didn’t really carry. Instead, they were sharp, examining, as if the stranger was waiting for Curt to make one wrong move.

Which he immediately did.

“Yes,” Curt Mega blurted out, because he was a dumbass and boy pretty. Curt, historically, hadn’t had this sort of trouble talking to attractive men, but of-fucking-course the first beautiful agent he meets he makes an absolute fool out of himself. “By you.” The recovery wasn’t the best and the stranger’s expression didn’t really change, but he did raise an eyebrow, which Curt didn’t take as a good sign.

The stranger, apparently not entirely perturbed by Curt, sat down next to him, wincing a bit as he did so. Curt’s mind almost instantly filled in the blanks to what the wince was and what he settled on was neither appropriate or realistic, but.

There was no but, actually. Curt was just hoping and he knew it would never be true, but it would be nice if he was less alone.

“You look _thrilled_ to be here, agent,” The man said, wryly, his eyes never leaving Curt, still watching him closely. The man’s voice had a nice, sharp accent and Curt hated how everything about this man was nice and sharp.

“I have no idea what this is for and my fucking team abandoned me, so I’m not exactly excited to be here,” Curt said, cavalier, before immediately remembering he was supposed to be an agent. Oops.

The man, to his credit, did not look off put by this. On the contrary, he almost looked endeared by Curt, which was something Curt wasn’t not at all prepared for.

“I don’t either, honestly,” The very handsome stranger admitted, leaning in closer to Curt, as if telling him a secret, and Curt did the same. “All I know is that some stuffy bloke is gonna talk about some new developments in Berlin, or something.” Curt liked his voice. A lot. He had a nice accent to it and dipped a bit when he said words like _developments_ and Curt was altogether fond of it. Before Curt could really process what the guy had told him, he spoke up again. “You’re new here, aren’t you? Haven’t really seen you around here before.”

“Yeah,” Curt said, before adding, almost belatedly. “Yes, I am, I just started a few months ago.”

“Thought so. I’m a bit new myself, so it’s nice to find someone else who’s going through the same thing,”

Curt, fearing a lull in the conversation, spoke up once again. “So, you’re from MI6, right?” Because Curt Mega had never had a full formed thought in his life, _apparently_.

“What gave it away?” The man asked dryly, but not unkindly, leaning back a bit, which was almost disappointing and Curt wasn’t entirely sure why. That was a lie. He knew exactly why.

“‘ _What gave it away_?’” Curt mimicked, his voice high and twisted in a vaguely offensive British accent. For a very scary moment, he was sure he had genuinely upset the man, but the stranger almost immediately quelled his fears. The man let out a surprised laugh, like he hadn’t been expecting to find it as funny. His laugh was also very sharp and Curt found himself endeared, which he attempted to hide under a cool layer of indifference, which he sure he did great.

“You are,” The man began, “ _Incredibly_ rude, Curt Mega,” His tone was light and airy and almost made Curt forget the fact that this stranger somehow knew his name.

“How did you--?”

“I am,” The man leaned forward, “A _very_ good spy.”

If Curt wasn’t already bedazzled by the man, this would’ve been the moment that pushed him over the edge, or maybe would’ve turned him off entirely. But this man was entirely entrancing, had been from the start, and there was no way Curt was going to turn away now.

As fate would have it, Curt’s stranger did. Someone called out to him and the beautiful stranger turned towards it, before standing.

“Ah, that’s my cue. See you soon, Agent Mega,” it sounded like a promise, coming from the man’s mouth and Curt took it as such.

Curt’s stranger made his way over to the podium at the head of the room and Curt’s jaw and stomach dropped to the floor. The man flashed a crooked grin over at Curt, who’s ears burned and was rendered unable to form a single thought for the second time that night.

Curt didn’t listen to a word of the briefing, but he did catch one thing;

 

 _Owen Carvour_.

  


 

Curt was undeniably pouting.

Usually, there would be some foreplay to get to this point, a little bit of Curt arguing that he wasn’t actually pouting before admitting that he was being a baby, but not this time. No, this time Curt was in full pout mode, arms crossed, jaw jutting out, gaze turned sharply out the window of the plane. He was completely ignoring Tatiana and for very good reason. Like, reasons that even she had to admit were valid.

“Curt.”

This was the third time Tatiana had tried to talk to him, which only caused Curt to shift closer to the window. Tears gathered in his eyes, but he wasn’t about to let them fall, not in front of Tatiana, at least. So instead, he let out a _very_ manly sniffle and leaned closer to the window, trying to block her out entirely.

“Curt, I’m sorry.”

Unlike Owen, Tatiana could apologize.

God, _Owen_.

“What? What exactly are you sorry about?” Curt snapped finally looking at Tatiana. She didn’t look particularly surprised at his outburst, which only made him more annoyed. “Are you sorry that you lied to me? Or are you sorry that you lied about something that would…”

 _That would hurt me the most_.

“I didn’t know that much, Curt,” Tatiana’s voice is steady and she’s not letting him get away with treating her like shit, but she’s not exactly being unkind, either. She was being infuriating, mostly. “Yes, I knew it had to do with Owen, but--”

“There’s no _but_ , Tatiana, you knew this was--” Curt was being entirely too loud for being in a plane, but he didn’t exactly care. Tatiana didn’t know everything about Owen, but she knew enough that it should’ve been clear that not telling him was going to hurt him.

“You,” Tatiana’s voice was no longer kind. “Do not interrupt me.”

Curt Mega shut his fucking mouth.

“I have the exact same information as you do now. I know we are going to London, I know it is something to do with Owen and _that is all I know_ . I am very sorry I didn’t tell you earlier and I know he was your _partner_ ,” she stressed the word quietly, in a way that made sure Curt understood, “ _but_ you do not speak to me like that again, no?”

Curt nodded, because for once he had more than one brain cell and he was pretty sure he wanted to live to tomorrow.

Tatiana, noticing Curt’s apparent fear, deflated a bit. “Curt, I _am_ sorry. I didn’t keep this secret to hurt you, there was just never a time for it. I promise, no more secrets. For now, at least.”

And that was the best Curt was going to get.

 

 

 

There was something truly entrancing about Owen Carvour when he was like this. He was facing Curt in the bed, his face half pressed down into the pillow, his hair in absolute disarray, which was to be expected, after what they just did. The sheets were pooled around his waist and his torso was completely bare. He looked almost angelic, but also like a mess and that’s what Curt loved most.

Whether he loved Owen was another question, though. Curt really, really wanted to love him. But it always felt like he was one step away, just out of reach. He had tried to bridge that gap, tried to talk to him more, but a lot of the time, Owen shut him down. Stopped most questions, wouldn’t talk about certain personal matters. It was infuriating in a way that was unique to Owen Carvour.

Absentmindedly, Curt traced over a mark that he had made on Owen’s neck. It was a mistake, they had rules against it, but Curt hadn’t been able to resist it then. And now, after the fact, it was almost intoxicating to see. Something to show what they had, something that said, Curt Mega was here, apart of Owen Carvour’s life, no matter how temporary.

“You’re annoying,” A voice mumbled, half buried in pillow, which only made Curt smile.

“What the fuck, you’re awake?”

Owen opened one eye, proceeded to look Curt in the eye and said; “No, I’m not.” The bastard.

Curt pinched the mark he had made, causing Owen to wince and glare at him, adjusting so he was fully looking at Curt.

“You are _incredibly_ rude, Curt Mega,” Owen said, but there was nothing but fondness in his voice. He was incredibly soft like this, a deep contrast to his usually sharpness that daylight brought. Curt preferred this Owen. He was almost certainly in love with this version of him.

“ _You_ should be asleep, Owen Carvour.”

“God, you sound like my mum,” his words were coupled with a slight laugh, but Curt wasn’t laughing, not really.

“You haven’t talked about your mom before.” Curt was trying to be casual about it, once again tracing Owen’s neck, but Owen knew him much better than that. He always had.

“Haven’t I?” Owen said, acting as if he hadn’t purposefully not talked to Curt about her, but Curt knew him much better than that. He always had.

“" _Haven't I?_ " Fuck off, you know you haven't.” Curt's tone was light, but he was still pretty serious, because fuck, he was curious. 

“That’s because they’re not very interesting, love,” Owen rested a hand on Curt’s cheek, as if trying to shield him from the fact that he knew fucking nothing about his lover’s life. It was warm and heavy and almost made Curt forget the situation at hand. Almost. Instead, he stayed silent, waiting for Owen to fill the silence.There was a beat. “Let’s see. My mum’s an inventor for MI6, similar to that Barb girl you have for yours. My sister's also an agent, bloody good one, too.”

"You _motherfucker_ ," It came out as a joke, but Curt did genuinely feel like shit upon the realization. Owen knew all of his shitty baggage and Owen had gone through to make sure Cut didn't even know he had family in the agency.

“They never came up,” Owen didn’t apologize. His fingers drew a lazy circle on Curt’s cheek. 

“You didn’t even tell me you had _siblings."_

“I’m telling you now. Anything you want to know, love.” Still not an apology, maybe because Owen didn't think Curt's anger was legitimate, but Curt would take it. 

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Abigail, she goes by Abby.”

“Do you have anymore siblings?”

“One brother, Rodney. We’re not close,” Owen sounded almost apologetic at that one, like he was sorry that he didn’t like Rodney.

“But you’re close to Abby?”

“She knows me better than anyone.”

“Will I ever get to meet Abby?”

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Then you will.” It sounded like a promise and Curt was certainly going to hold him to it.

“Does she know about me?”

There was a pregnant pause and for a moment, Curt really regretted asking it. Maybe he was assuming that he had a bigger part in Owen’s life than he actually did. That Owen didn’t actually care about him as much as Curt did.

“She does. She knows about all of it,” Curt didn’t miss the way Owen’s voice almost trembled at the end of it, like he was terrified of the concept of someone knowing about them. But someone did, which actually comforted Curt quite a bit. He almost asked more about her, almost asked about how she reacted, but let it drop. Owen looked a bit… overwhelmed by the topic, as much as he tried to school his features into a neutral face, he still looked like it was a bit too much to talk about.

“What about your dad?”

Curt tried to change the subject to a more neutral ground, but this topic seemed to perplex Owen just as much.

“He’s… he was a very traditional guy. Died a few years back.”

Owen’s voice was very quiet and Curt almost had to strain to hear, but he didn’t miss how he sounded sadder saying that his father was traditional than when he said he was dead. He let his fingers drag on Owen’s neck, attempting to comfort him in any way. There wasn’t any real words to say and Curt had a feeling that asking him to elaborate would only cause Owen to freeze up. So, instead, he moved his face closer to Owen’s and, as if he was trading a secret, said:

“He sounds like a dick.”

“Yeah, well, he was.” Owen agreed and it sounded like he tried to laugh too, but it was sad. Curt didn’t even know someone could laugh sadly.

That was apparently the right thing to say, because Owen’s face shifted to something Curt didn’t entirely recognize. It was soft, open, genuine, and something else he had never seen on Owen, but he took it as a good sign. Very gently, which was traditionally not the Owen Carvour way, he leaned forward, hand tightening on Curt’s face, and kissed him. It was the softest kiss they had ever had. Usually there was a level of urgency, a level of want and desire, but this time? It was soft, it was Owen doing it because he _could_ , not to fulfill a need.

It was Curt’s favorite kiss they had ever shared.

  
  


When they arrived in London, Curt was jet lagged and pissed off. Not at Tatiana, though things were a bit awkward and they hadn’t really spoken since her apology, but more pissed at the situation. He was pissed he had to catch a flight to London in the middle of the night, pissed that no one would give him anymore information than “it’s about Owen,” and pissed that Owen wasn’t there.

It was times like this where Curt really fucking missed Owen Carvour.

They weren’t… in love. Or maybe they were, or maybe Curt was romanticizing what they had, but Curt _missed_ him. And it was a physical pain that hadn’t gone away ever since Owen’s death. Sometimes, it got quieter, but it would never really go away.

It took Curt a bit to realize that Tatiana had wandered off. She was in front of two men, both dressed mostly in black and were wearing sunglasses inside. They were hideously unstylish. Curt made his way towards the group, hoisting his bag further over his shoulder as he did so.

“...So I guess this will have to do.”

Curt recognized it as the second half to the code they were given and mentally breathed a sigh of relief. At least Tatiana wasn’t just getting friendly with the locals for no reason.

One of the agents, the older of the two, who had a very bad beard, raised an eyebrow at Curt and opened his mouth, possibly to comment on something, but was somehow shut down by three separate glares from the rest of his party.

Curt and MI6 didn’t exactly play nice anymore. They had all but refused to work with him after Owen’s death and whatever work they cooperated on, it was always tense and often unsuccessful. Perhaps they blamed Curt for Owen’s death and perhaps that blame wasn’t misplace, but Curt was still a fucking spy and at least he could pretend to be professional.

 

The car ride ended up being as awkward as the plane ride, if not more so. The beginning of the trip started with Tatiana prompting them for any information about it, but it turned out they were more of just transport and had less to do with the case and Tatiana wasn’t exactly stellar with small talk and Curt wasn’t in any state to talk to anyone about anything.

Curt felt more like he was on the edge of something. Probably a mental breakdown, honestly. He didn’t say anything, though, instead he stared out the window as Tatiana cleaned her gun absent mindedly. The back of the car was cramped with the two of them in addition to their bags, but the MI6 agents (Ronald and Jeremy, Curt later learned. Both of them had dumb as hell names) insisted they didn’t have any room in the trunk and Curt was exactly too tired and pissed to argue, so instead he sacrificed his leg room.

When they finally, _finally_ arrived at the center, which they also wouldn’t specify exactly where they were going, Curt pretty much ran out of the damned car. Tatiana followed him at a much more controlled pace, though it was clear she was also less than pleased with the entire situation.

They were greeted with a completely nondescript building which made Curt want to boil his own eyes because he wanted answers, but instead he got more vagueness, this time in building form.

Outside the building, however, was a figure, who seemed to be waiting.

He was maybe a bit short in stature, curly hair that was a bit too long for an average agent. He looked somehow both happy and grim, an expression he had only seen Owen pull off as well as the man was.

His name was Todd and Curt had met him before.

At Owen’s funeral.

God, what a way to meet one of Owen’s closest friends in the agency, at his fucking funeral. And there was no way Curt was able to keep in contact with him, even though Todd had attempted afterwards.

It just hurt too much.

“Curt Mega!” He chirped, happy to see him, despite everything. “Lovely to see you again, and who’s your friend here?”

Curt forgot how much this was going to hurt. It hurt being in England, even. Everything sort of reminded him of Owen in the worst ways. The way the sky turned a deep gray, the dreary atmosphere, the sense of doom that was only getting worse with every passing moment. It was hell.

“Tatiana,” Tatiana said, once she realized Curt was almost completely out of it.

Todd, however, had made no such realization.

He wasn’t as good at reading people, not really, which is why he erred more on the side of desk work. Owen once said that he used to be the most brilliant dumbass he had ever met. Owen also said that Curt took that title shortly after Owen met him, because Owen, even at his best, was a dick.

Todd led them into the building and was chattering about nothing and everything. Nothing to do with the actual mission. Everything to do with everything else. Like Tatiana’s shoes. Or Curt’s stubble. Or the weather.

“What about the case, Todd, was it?” Tatiana said, in a comical performance of politeness that almost made Curt snort, but instead he didn’t really react. Instead, he looked into the windows of the rooms they passed, it finally dawning on him that they were in some kind of hospital.

“Ah yes, the case,” Todd’s happiness did not diminish, which made Curt feel worse. “So, what we were thinking that Curt might be what we need for it, because there’s been no response from anyone else, but at Abby’s suggestion--” They passed a few more rooms as he spoke. A lot of them were filled with what Curt assumed were agents, all in various of states disarray and it only made him more confused about why they were there.

“I’m sorry,” Tatiana interrupted, though she wasn’t really, Curt could tell. “We don’t have a lot of information about the case, could you maybe catch us up?”

Todd didn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, yeah of course, well, what do you guys know so far?”

“We know it’s about Owen,” Curt spoke up, finally, side-eyeing Todd, looking for a reaction when he said his name. There was a slight one, but Curt had no idea how to interpret it.

“And?”

“That’s it. That’s all they told us.”

Todd stopped cold. Any previous joy that was on his face had gone and he looked… shocked? Angry? Sad? _No_ , he looked at Curt with pity and Curt could feel his blood boil once again.

“Oh, fuck.” Curt had never heard Todd swear before. He wasn’t sure he liked it more or less than every other word he said. “Well, uh, maybe, maybe we should sit down?” His voice was shaky, and his entire body had started trembling.

“I’ve seen dead bodies before,” Curt snapped, entire body taught and angry. Tatiana cut him a sharp look, but he ignored it. “Just fucking show it to me and let’s get this over with.”

“You’re… not here to identify a corpse, Mr. Mega,” Curt’s outburst had shaken some of the trepidation from Todd, which only served to infuriate Curt more. “Also, it’s been what, two years, six months? It would be, uh, a skeleton by now, that makes zero sense--”

“Then why the fuck are we here? You haven’t explained anything, no one’s explained anything!” Curt’s voice broke a bit on the end, but it was mostly out of anger, which thus made it ineligible to make fun of.

Todd looked thoroughly scared, but also a little bit annoyed and Curt hated that no one could just be outright frightened of him anymore.

“He’s not dead, Curt.”

 

And Curt’s world sort of tilted, just a bit.

 

Todd said more, but also continued walking and Curt could either listen or walk, so he walked and stared, not understanding.

Not dead.

Not dead did not mean alive, though.

It also did not not mean alive and Curt’s world was only getting more and more tilted and he was scared that eventually it would be directly upside down.

They eventually stopped in front of a room and there in front of it, in addition to several different agents, was Abby Carvour, Owen Carvour’s older sister.

Her face was different from Owen’s in almost every way, but they had the same expressions and now she was wearing one that was a trained calmness. Unnatural to a knowing eye, normal to everyone else.

“Curt.”

Her voice sounded so, so far and so, so sad and Curt could almost start crying just from that, but he didn’t. Instead, he looked through the window. There, sitting on the edge of the bed, faced away from the window, was a figure. Curt’s stomach rolled and for a brief moment, vomiting was a very real fear, but the feeling subsided after a few moments of looking.

Owen probably looked scarier up close.

“Abby,” Curt managed, a few moments too late, looking at her again, only to find that she had moved. Instead, she was hugging someone else, someone who Curt had also seen at Owen’s funeral, but couldn’t for the life of him name.

Curt took a breather, leaning up against the nearby wall, trying not to sound like he was choking for air. Which he was, but Abby and her grief didn’t need to see that.

Tatiana did notice, however.

She hovered by his side for a bit, just holding his hand for a bit, telling him to breathe. She wasn’t very good at comforting people, in all honesty, but Curt would’ve preferred no other person to comfort him in that moment.

“What’s the game plan?” Curt asked, after his breathing resembled something normal. He still was freaked out to the extreme and he wasn’t sure he was ever going to actually recover, but there was Owen’s family around and he could only freak out so much in front of them.

“You, when you’re ready,” Tatiana spoke as if she was talking to a spooked animal, and Curt realized that she sort of was. “Are going to go in there, accompanied by several different agents, to try to talk to him. He’s been unresponsive to most people so far and there’s a hope that you might be able to shake him out of it.”

“Because I was the last one to see him alive?”

God, he wasn’t though, not really. Because Owen Carvour had never died, which almost sent Curt into another wave of panic.

“You two were also close,” Tatiana pointed out, quietly. “Abby said he spoke highly of you and she requested you come.”

“Abby requested me?” Curt said, as if she wasn’t ten feet away. Then, whispering; “She _hates_ me.” He was attempting to focus on anything that wasn’t Owen Carvour. Apparently his sister was averting his panic.

Tatiana rolled her eyes at that. “She doesn’t _hate_ you, she hated that her brother was dead and you were still alive.”

“I’m not sure that’s an important distinction.”

Tatiana looked like she wanted to roll her eyes again. She did. Curt glanced around the room quickly. Everyone seemed to be waiting in a quiet anticipation for Curt to get his shit together, which would’ve made him feel guilty, if it wasn’t his ex-dead ex (?) lover on the other side of a thin piece of glass. So, yeah, he wasn’t feeling particularly remorseful.

“Are you ready?"

“Yes,” Curt said because he wasn’t.

Curt Mega, with all his bravery and strength, made his way to the door. He was flanked by two agents and his hands shook as he turned the knob, but if anyone noticed, they didn’t say anything.

The room itself was pretty bare. There was a bed that was plain white in the middle of the room. A curtain that led to a bathroom. One very bare side table. The one-way mirror that Curt was just on the other side of. A painting that wasn’t really of anything on the opposite wall

And then, on the bed, facing away from Curt, was Owen Carvour.

Owen was facing the painting, looking at it with a complete blank expression. He looked well taken care of, at least. Didn’t look entirely too thin, but there was sort of a haunted look to him. His hair was shorter than he usually had it, but it was still slicked back like usual. His arms...were a mess and Curt couldn’t look at it too long.

“Y’know, I never really got art,” Curt said, because what else could he say? He looked at the painting briefly, reflecting on the seemingly random swirl of colors.

The apparently unresponsive-to-most-stimuli Owen Carvour, whipped his head over to Curt.

His gaze was one that Curt didn’t want to return, but suddenly he found that he couldn’t look away. In all his glory, there was Owen. The one person Curt had always wanted to see again, but the one person he never would. Until now, as it turned out.

Owen sat there, for a long moment, just staring, examining him in a way that didn’t resemble Owen Carvour at all and for a very scary moment, Curt thought that maybe it wasn’t actually Owen, but someone who merely looked the part.  
But then Owen moved closer, standing right in front of Curt Mega and Curt didn’t think he could breathe, actually, didn’t think he could actually think ever again.

 

There was no denying that this was Owen, with the same crooked jaw and sharp eyes.

 

And it terrified Curt.


	2. the death of owen carvour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important shit!:  
> 1\. i rewrote the majority of the first chapter. oops. i'm very indecisive and i thought of a better ending to it  
> 2\. this is from owen's perspective so there's a lot of mentions of torture, and it mentions being bloody but there isn't an explicit bloody torture scene, though there is a depiction of like mental torture and owen just in general isn't in a Super Great Place, so just be aware of that  
> 3\. i listened to monster by dodie and just. every song by the bleachers while writing this and honestly? it's what i'd recommend

Owen Carvour died a long time ago.

 

Not when Curt Mega initially left him for dead, though he definitely almost died in that instance. Something within him died, sure, but it wasn't Owen Carvour. Maybe just a bit of respect he had for Curt Mega. He could still remember it clearly, as he watched Curt Mega look back at him and pause for a beat. Two. And then he disappeared up the stairs, leaving Owen in a heap of pain, awaiting a death that wouldn’t come, not yet. He wasn't really sure how long he had laid there, waiting, _wanting_ to die. Crying out for someone to hear him. In hindsight, it was quite _pathetic_. 

No, Owen Carvour died in a cell, off on some obscure island in the pacific. He died in the midst of a more tame torture session, as tame as torture sessions could be. Though, as he would come to realize, they were less of torture and more of training sessions. They were making him listen to the cries of pain of one Abigail Carvour over and over again. It was basic, really. Just pleading for her life, begging Owen to do something about it, saying that they had the wrong person. Owen had done the entire song and dance countless times and was less than impressed. In the middle of it, the cries stopped being from his sister and they just became noise, just white noise. In that moment, The Deadliest Man Alive became alive. Maybe not alive, not quite, because he didn't really feel _alive_ anymore. More functional, operating at last. 

There was an unspoken anger, a fear, and a longing. These did not belong to the Deadliest Man Alive, no. Even posthumously, Owen Carvour spilled into everything that the Deadliest Man Alive was. His emotions, his memories, everything he tried to bury. It still lingered, but it never meant the same thing. The memories were bittersweet and the emotions left him cold, because he could no longer feel them. Or maybe he could and he had just shoved them down enough that he thought he was numb to them. He wasn’t sure there was enough of a difference to make a distinction, though.

The Deadliest Man Alive hadn’t thought about Owen Carvour in a while.

“A while” being about three days.

It was hard not to mourn the man he was, but it, in the same breath, intensely difficult to mourn Owen Carvour. Owen Carvour was a fool who thought his secrets would save him, that his hesitance was salvation. He was a coward and a fool. But he also had Curt Mega, which meant that maybe, just maybe, Owen Carvour had done something very right.

Or perhaps he did something inconceivably wrong.

The answer changed day by day.

 

Some days, the Deadliest Man Alive understood Curt. He understood his desire to leave him, to leave his darkest secret in the dust, to complete the mission. Part of him respected that, respected his loyalty to the agency. And, in the remnants of Owen Carvour, there was a love that wouldn’t die, as much as he tried to kill it. There were memories of lingering looks, of nights spent together, a love that could scorch the earth, that, even though Owen was dead, he wouldn’t trade for anything in the world.

Other days, _most_ days, the Deadliest Man Alive hated him. His anger was the kind that burned cities to the ground, that started revolutions, that was unique to those that had been left behind, forgotten. It was the thing that kept him alive, most days, because one could not live on love alone. It was the kind of anger that wasn’t always hate, but just fear in a different light. Afraid that what they told him was true, that Curt had traded Owen’s life for his own and abandoned him with Chimera. That Curt sold him out, that Curt didn’t actually feel anything, that he thought Owen deserved this. That was the rarest anger, though, the majority of it was the anger  that Curt Mega walked free when he was in a cell.

Eventually, though, the cell stopped being a cell and it was just a place he resided. A home, even, because he understood Chimera and once you understand, you’re not a prisoner, not anymore. And the Deadliest Man Alive understood, he really did. The secrets he had were holding him back, holding _the world_ back.

It took him a while to accept it, though.

A long, long while.

 

“You'll be the death of me."

"I'll never let you down."

 

They let his hair grow long and he hated it, really. Or maybe he didn’t really care. It was hard to tell if there was a difference between hatred and indifference. They let it mat, too, not bothering to provide him a brush or anything to properly take care of it. So it was ratty and greasy and he sort of wanted to tear it out, but he also thought that maybe it was part of his punishment, so he let it be.

It hung in his face as the man slowly stitched him up. The man looked almost serene, though his face was quite terrifying, in spite of the calmness he tried to exude. He was an oddity, in a compound full of them. The man, however, despite The Deadliest Man Alive’s reluctance, was his favorite.

While the man sewed him up, he let him ask questions, about anything he wanted. It was a relief, it a step away from everything, it was a person treating him like a person, even though they weren't supposed to, he didn't think. Or maybe they usually didn't want to. Again, he wasn't really sure that there was a difference between the two. So many lines got blurred the longer he had been in there, and at one point or another, he had just stopped caring. 

"Why don’t I have a name?”

He asked the man, who’s name was Jerry, who didn't have any kids because he didn’t think he could ever really handle them. Who almost got married last year, but his job got in the way. His hands were rough and calloused, just like his face and The Deadliest Man Alive had to remind himself not to flinch whenever he ran his hand over his skin. It was unnerving and he wasn't exactly one who was easily unnerved.

“Don’t you?” Jerry asked, frowning a bit as he finished the stitches on his left arm, moving over to his right. It wasn’t torture, really, because he was just paying a fee for his freedom. “Owen Carvour, right?” Jerry made it sound like he wasn't sure of the name, but really he knew that Jerry knew from the start. They all knew the name, but no one had ever called him by it. Never.

That sent a chill down his spine. Because that _was_ him, but wasn't the entire point of it making sure it wasn't him any longer? To tear it away from him? To build him back better? Why would he want the name of someone who had failed?

“Owen Carvour is dead.” His tone was unflinching and cold and he said it in his _voice_. Not Owen’s voice, not in the immaculate, precise, sharp voice. No, the Deadliest Man Alive’s voice was more of a snarl, almost a mockery of Owen’s voice.

Jerry seemed a bit sad at that, but also slightly amused. He paused his stitching, only for a moment, and looked him in the eye. “Maybe it’s because weapons don’t typically have names, then.”

 

Curt hadn’t woken up yet and he was the most beautiful thing on the planet. Owen tried not to do this too often, because he knew he would get used to it, knew that he would begin to crave it once he couldn’t do it any longer.

Owen ran a hand through Curt’s hair and tried not to cry, because he was missing it preemptively.

“I love you, Curt Mega,” He whispered and it was the first and the last time he said it.

 

For three days, or what he assumed was three days, Owen listened to nothing but Curt’s voice. Usually, that wouldn’t have been a bad thing. Maybe, at its worst, a little annoying, but not bad. When he was there, it was nothing but bad. It was listening to Curt begging for life, for freedom, for anything. It was Curt spilling every secret he knew of, any information that was even remotely relevant. But mostly, it was him calling out for Owen. Begging him for help, screaming out that he was in pain and why wasn’t Owen doing anything.

In the first few hours, Owen tried to make himself believe that it was fake. Reason that it was fake, that there wasn’t anyway it could be real. Curt was stronger than that. That Curt cared more about his country than he did Owen, so he wouldn’t give up their secrets.

By the last day, Owen sobbing. A full bodied cry, one that carved into his bones, that would never let him settle. He begged for them to let him talk, he would say anything to make them stop, to make them not hurt Curt anymore. Owen promised that he would do anything, pretty much just babbling nonsense, just begging for them to stop.

What Owen remembered most about it, other than Curt’s voice, was the way they laughed. They laughed at his pleas, laughed at his love for Curt Mega, laughed at everything that was Owen Carvour. It was, in that moment, he realized that Owen Carvour was nothing but a big joke and he vowed he would never, ever be that again.

 

“You are _incredibly_ rude, Curt Mega.”

“ _You_ should be asleep, Owen Carvour.”

 

Sometimes, Chimera ran a test on him. It was as if he had been captured by MI6, by the CIA, by any obscure foreign government. They would have him be captured, be tortured for any information, and either they would expect him to escape, they would stage a rescue from it, or he'd have to kill someone. Sometimes a mixture of two of them. Sometimes, they made Owen’s “sister” show up, to try and sway his alliance, but it was almost always an obvious actor. Some of them were decent, but for the most part, they were shit and he didn’t really feel too terrible about killing them.

Curt made an appearance in almost all of them. They sort of counted on him not totally remembering Curt’s face, but of course he remembered every detail. He didn’t really care, though, it was always an obvious fake. It was almost cathartic, like a reward, killing Curt again and again. It was also the worst form of punishment, and he couldn’t really make up his mind if it was a good thing, or a bad one. He stopped trying to answer the question a while ago.

This, however, wasn’t the usual routine for this test. Usually, the Deadliest Man Alive woke up after being drugged, tied to a chair, or maybe to a wall. Usually the room was dark with one hanging light and there was almost always a drain on the floor to make for an easy clean up for whatever blood he was about to spill. 

Currently, he was in a bed. An actual bed. One that was softer than the one in his home. He burrowed himself further into it, letting himself pretend that this was actually his life. That he had and deserved a bed as soft as this one, as _clean_ as this one. That he had done something so incredibly right that that was now his life. 

It wasn’t, though.

After a few minutes, or maybe hours, because his sense of time was irrevocably broken, he sat up. The room was pretty bare, which was standard, really, but it was clean. Like, in an immaculate way that meant someone cared.

Also, he wasn’t tied up, which was just lazy on their part. It was like they were asking him to escape, which they were, really, to prove that he could, but also he was fond of the bed, so he could live a few days in the pretend torture. There was a slim difference between real and pretend torture, another line he didn’t care to draw.

 

“What’s your name, son?”

He didn’t even realize someone had entered the room, honestly. He was sort of overcome with the softness and the feeling of clean sheets. It was nice. He didn’t exactly react to the voice, either, a trained behavior to ignore the captors in these test. To just feign ignorance. It was easier, to pretend to be a simpleton and then they let their guard down and then the Deadliest Man Alive did his job. That was how it typically went.

So he didn’t react, instead just smoothing out the sheets, liking the feeling beneath his fingers. He almost started crying, but he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to do that anymore.

That was when he realized he was actually clean and he almost _did_ start crying. He couldn’t remember the last time he was actually clean, not in this way. Someone had gone through the trouble of cutting his nails, even, and he hadn’t ever felt better.

“Do you know where you are?”

The voice was gruff but not unkind and it reminded him of Jerry, just a bit. He didn’t think they looked the same, though he couldn’t really say for sure, because he didn’t look at the man. Instead, he continued on as if he hadn’t spoken.

They had even cut his hair.

It was shorter than he usually cut it, but it was still cut and clean and he couldn’t stop running his hands through it.

He had no idea what he did to deserve this.

He didn’t remember being particularly _good_ , even. He had been sort of bitchy the last few days, killing someone they had advised against him killing. They didn’t outright forbid it, but even if they did, he wasn’t sure that would have stopped him. In the back of his mind, he thought they might have known that, that he was beginning to operate outside of them again and maybe that had scared them.

Maybe that was why they had cut their hair.

“You’re in London, son, you’re safe.”

It was notably not Owen Carvour’s father, who was a bastard, if his memory served. He wondered, vaguely, offhandedly, what he was up to. Though he wasn’t really sure if he cared about the answer.

He didn’t answer and just continued to stare, until the man left the room.

 

 

“Tell me to stop,”  Curt said softly, as he pressed Owen up against the counter top. They weren’t quite kissing, not yet, but he was dangerously close. “Tell me to stop and we can forget this, you just gotta--”

“No, by all means, continue,” And with that, Owen kissed Curt for the first time.

 

 

The actress that played Owen Carvour’s sister kept visiting. It was irritating, in all honesty. She looked the part well, maybe a bit older than he remembered her, and her acting was spectacular, but he had no idea why she kept visiting. Maybe they were testing him again and again, seeing if he’d crack, if he’d eventually give in.

But he never did.

Instead, whenever she visited, he looked anywhere but her, unless forced. Mainly at the painting, which was hideous and beautiful and it was the most color he had ever had in a room in a very long time. Well, color that wasn’t his own blood. So he spent the majority of his days staring at the painting, though occasionally the actress would move into his field of view, blocking the painting.

She made it very difficult for him not to react, to her credit.

She looked genuinely sad most of the time and she told him things that he had missed, about her wedding that he was supposed to be the best man at, about their brother, about his favorite band that had broken up. She told him about springtime, about how she got a new dog, about her husband. Told him about the new museum that started up just a block from where she lived and how there was this one portrait that she swore looked _just like_ him and that she would have to show it to him, sometime. 

Except none of it was _his_ , not really.

First of all, it was all some bullshit test that Chimera was putting on to make sure he was loyal. And, secondly, even if it had been real, it all belonged to Owen Carvour, who was six feet under his skin, buried, never to see the light of day again. Part of him wanted to warn her, to tell her what was happening, to tell her about Owen's fate. But, since it was all fake, he didn't say a word, just like he was supposed to do.

What almost broke him, though, was during her final visit, when she grabbed him by the hand, directly in his field of view so he couldn't look away. Her deep brown hair was pulled back but there were more flyaway hairs than he could count and the circle under her eyes were so deep that he was pretty sure they rivaled his own. 

"I know you're in there, Owen," The actress spoke in an authoritative manner that was still somehow vulnerable and comforting. It left him feeling hollow with something akin to remembrance. "And I'm going to get you out, I promise."

Maybe he should have warned her.

 

 

Some days, the painting looked like two birds, nestled against one another. Today, it had just been a mess of colors. Chaotic, swirling colors that didn't really mean, anything. Not really. Part of him wanted to reach out and trace the swirls of paint with a finger, to recreate the so called artistry, to try and understand. Part of him also wanted to smash the painting. The duality of man.

“Y’know, I never really got art." 

He hadn't even heard him come in. Usually he would've been better than that, he could've heard Curt sneaking up on him from a mile away. But this time, Curt wasn't really sneaking up and he wasn't really listening.

 _Not Curt_ , he reminded himself softly, turning his head to look at the man. Not Curt looked a scary amount like actual Curt, right down to the way he looked absolutely terrified of Owen. They had really stepped up their game as far as actors went and The Deadliest Man Alive was almost impressed. Almost. 

In an instant, he knew what had to be done.

He was already getting used to the current place, to having access to a shower whenever he wanted, to the clean sheets, and the painting. He was already preemptively missing it and it was too much. He had to end the test, because the reward was getting to be too much, because he didn't really deserve it, did he? They were taunting him again, showing him what he could've had, if he had just been a little better, followed their orders a little bit more. These rewards were saved for an honest man, free of secrets and he wasn't sure that was him.

So he had to end the test.

The test usually ended when either he succeeded to escape, he failed to escape, or he killed someone like Curt Mega. Someone who he had sworn his allegiance to at one point, sworn his life to. It was the breaking of a bond and reaffirming his loyalty to Chimera. It was also part of the reward and the punishment. 

So he stood up and made his way over to Curt Mega, pausing just an arms length away. Curt looked tired. Or Not Curt did. Not Curt looked tired and almost like a perfect copy of real Curt, except for maybe the stubble, because Curt had usually went with clean shaven. He was just as handsome as Curt was, which was something that still made him feel guilty for even daring to think, but it was the truth. 

He would've stared at Curt longer, if the fear in Curt's eyes didn't hurt him.

But they did, so the Deadliest Man Alive strangled him.

It wasn't, perhaps, the best plan. 

Because he hadn't ever really tried to strangle a Curt Mega actor, at least not one who looked so similar to the real him. One that, at a glance, he couldn't tell them apart. Hell, even when he looked at them for a while, they looked the same. 

Because the second his hands wrapped around Curt's neck and _squeezed_ and Curt Mega's hands wrapped around in own to attempt to peel his hands off, someone had knocked him off kilter, attempting to restrain The Deadliest Man Alive. Which was a very terrible idea. He swung his elbow back, catching on of them in the nose, before using the same momentum to propel his fist forward, slamming it into another one's face. When the agent staggered, he lunged for the gun secured on agents' belt. He almost felt bad for the agents. Almost. 

No bad enough not to slam the butt of the gun into one of their faces, though. 

And then there was Curt Mega. 

Still on the ground attempting to recover from the strangling attempt, looking more frightened than ever. Bright reds were beginning to bloom on his neck and it really reminded him of the painting actually. The Deadliest Man Alive cocked the gun, watching as Curt tried to back away from him, trying to scoot his way across the floor, before his back hit the wall, just under the one sided mirror. It was almost funny to see him like this, one of the best agents in the world, on the floor, staring up in fear at _the_ best agent in the world. He towered over the once great Curt Mega and he didn't feel a single thing. 

He aimed the gun and fired three times.

The glass shattered.

Curt Mega had a very conflicted look on his face, one of relief and also pain, as glass did rain down on top of his head. And, for a moment, he was amused at the look, he could almost understand why Chimera did this sort of thing to him, it was entertaining, watching how conflicted humans could become in a matter of moments. 

In his realization, he had forgotten to pay attention to several different things.

The first being that someone had entered the room in the midst of the fight. 

The second being that that person was actually two. One being Abby Carvour's actress, the other being some girl with bright red hair and a mean look in her eye.

 The third being that he was royally, _royally_ fucked. 

Because while the Deadliest Man Alive had quickly dispatched the other two agents, they weren't exactly... competent. Not in the same way Curt Mega used to be, or Owen Carvour once was, or how Abby Carvour was currently.

She got lucky, was how he reasoned it. Because how could she have known that hitting his left leg, just behind the kneecap would cause him to crumble? _No one_ knew that, no one at Chimera, at least. So it was luck, and it was luck that Not Abby seemingly called his shots before he even took them, how she could basically predict his movements. All just luck, because there wasn't a better explanation, because there was no way an actress, even if she had been trained as an agent or whatever, could be  _that_ good. And she wasn't even fighting to really hurt him, just disarm and stop him, not to cause the most amount of damage. The entirety of her was bizarre. 

He didn't have long to ponder it, though, because Abby actress thoroughly kicked his ass and then her little friend stabbed him in the arm with something. At first, he thought he was just getting stabbed, which was pretty typical. Though he felt his entire body sort of sag under it's own weight and suddenly everything seemed much further away than it did just a few moment's prior. 

 

"Pardon me, is this seat taken?"

"Yes...by you."

 

 When he woke up, his head was lulled back and his entire body was stiff from sitting upright. Now, that was a bit more right. A quick tug confirmed that his hands were restrained, quite expertly too, none of the lax treatment he had suffered from earlier in the week. It smelled a bit sterile, more than usual, but he brushed it off as a little bit of extra cleanliness for once. He almost let out a sigh of relief, because it was relieving to be back home, despite his failure. The tests always dragged on for far too long and left him feeling exhausted, so he welcomed his return to the compound.

When someone entered the room, The Deadliest Man Alive didn't bother looking up, or straightening out his head, instead just letting it fall back lifelessly. It was almost comforting, at a point. 

"At least that's over, right?" He said, dryly, in the voice that was a mockery of Owen Carvour's. He knew he was about to be punished, a failure was a failure after all. Still, after all this time, it was hard to prepare for it, even if it was deserved. 

"At least what's over, Carvour?" 

He probably could've given himself whiplash from how quickly he snapped his head up to stare at the man. The voice was the same as the one he had heard the first day he arrived at the test. And the face was one that looked, familiar, sort of. It looked vaguely similar to a senior agent that used to work with Owen Carvour, but it couldn't be him, because he was either dead or in London and he should've been back in the compound.

Though, upon closer inspection, the room didn't look anything like the compound. The room was painted white instead of just being a blank concrete color, and the light was built into the ceiling instead of just ominously hanging above him and there was even a table separating the two of them. And the floor didn't even have a drain, so there was no way he was anywhere close to the compound. He could physically feel whatever comfort he had gathered from being home be ripped away from him.

"Why aren't I back yet? What..." He trailed off, because he was sort of hopelessly looking around the room, just reconfirming his fears over and over again. 

If the man had a response, the Deadliest Man Alive didn't listen to it. Instead, he just receded further into himself, letting his neutral facade pull over his face as he tried to figure out what the fuck was happening. 

It was one of two options.

The first being that the test would continue until he actually escaped, that this was the next level of his training and he wouldn't be out of this until he physically escaped the facility and made his way back to his original compound. Which was possible, and the most probable. 

Or this was all very real. 

He swallowed hard.

It could be that the actress that played Abby Carvour was the very real Abby Carvour, his-- _Owen_ 's sister. That that had been the real Curt Mega and he almost killed him. Or he failed to kill him. He wasn't really sure which was worse and he didn't know if he had to make the distinction anymore. 

If it was real, it meant Owen Carvour was supposed to be saved, but instead the just got him. 

It couldn't have been real, though. Because they wouldn't let it happen, they had so many backups to stop people from finding the compound, they had so many contingency plans, no one would've let this happen. And they would have killed him, first. They wouldn't have let him get captured. 

So a test it was. 

 

 

"I don't like that look in your eyes, yes six minutes."

"Oh, you _love_ it."

 

 

At some point, the man had left, leaving him alone in the room for what could've either been days or minutes. He had spent the first part trying to worm his way out of the handcuffs, not caring if the one way mirror saw his every move. If it changed anything, they would have sent someone in to stop him, but the handcuffs were securely on and there wasn't even anything he could pretend to use to unlock them. 

So eventually, he gave up. Just for the time being, because the cuffs were beginning to hurt and, while he didn't exactly mind it, he knew that hurting himself at this point would be pointless. He needed to figure out a pattern, first, to see if there were any gaps to how they ran things, any moments where he could just slip by. 

Any idea of trying to figure anything out went out the window, however, when Curt Mega walked into the room.

 _Not Curt_.

Curt looked really pissed and it really gave him a sense of joy, really, pissing Curt off. Curt was wearing something different than the last time he saw him, now he was wearing just a plain blue shirt that almost looked familiar. Almost. He hadn't bothered to hide the marks that the Deadliest Man Alive had caused and he could see clearly the way his hands pressed around his throat, how it the brightest red marks where his fingers had dug in where beginning to turn purple. 

Curt took a seat across from him, holding a file that he set down haphazardly onto the table in front of him. Curt glared at him warily, opening up the file, as if paging his way through it, but it felt more like he was just trying to find something to do with his hands. 

"So, are you going to try and kill me again, or are we past that?" Curt said roughly, his entire voice rough and crackly. He could tell Curt didn't really mean to say it, that it was just the first thing that really came to his mind and he just went along with it. It might've almost been endearing to Owen Carvour.

"I didn't start it," He said in his voice that was definitely not Owen Carvour's. He said it because there wasn't a protocol for this part of the test and he really wanted to see if he could get the actor to break.

"" _Oh I didn't start it_ " what are you, fucking five?" Curt sneered, doing a very offensive version of his new accent, which only annoyed him more. How dare Curt be angry at him when the last time the saw each other, Curt left him to fucking die. Well, actually the last time they saw each other, he did come very close to killing Curt, but the time before that. 

"Oh fuck _off_ Mega," He said, his words breaking back into the posh accent for a mere moment before he caught himself again. He thought that  maybe it hadn't been noticeable, but he judged by how smug Curt looked there was no way he didn't notice. Whatever, it wasn't like it would actually matter in the long run. He just had to escape the test and get back to the compound.

"Great comeback, man, how will I _ever_ recover?"

"Aren't you supposed to be torturing me or at the very least interrogating me? Or is this your new form of torture, just annoying me to death?"

"I don't know, is it working?"

"Yes, actually, every time you open my mouth I can feel a piece of me die. Or maybe that part of me already died when you left me for _dead_."

Curt winced at that one and finally looked away.

Vaguely, he knew Curt was just goading him into talking, that he was supposed to keep his mouth shut and look for patterns and figure everything else. But a part of him also thought that the process of torturing Curt in this way would be far more cathartic than killing any sort of Curt actor. 

It was going to be a very _rewarding_ torture session. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly didn't think i was ever gonna continue this fic, let alone so quickly, so like. i'm doing pretty alright.
> 
> also abby was added to the fic for one reason: the love i have for my siblings transcends all forms of media and i feel obligated to have one sibling character in there. that's the entire reason.

**Author's Note:**

> y'all if anyone wants to yell about spies are forever, hit me up at kindafancybus on tumblr
> 
> also also, if anyone has any suggestions, or just general comments, or or tips, would appreciate because i don't know what i'm doing ever


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